The Angel's Flight
by Louise-Anne
Summary: Meg Giry and her Mother have found themselves under suspicion regarding the activities of Erik, the man known as The Phantom of the Opera. With their future destroyed and their liberty at threat, Meg and Antoinette Giry have no choice but to flee Paris in the company of Erik. Covers the 10 year gap between The Phantom of the Opera and Love Never Dies. Meg's POV.
1. Chapter 1

**The Angel's Flight**

**Chapter 1**

The March rain was falling heavily over Paris, but it was no match for the fire that blazed from the Opera Populairé. Mother and I stood, hand in hand, watching the destruction of the building we called home. We both worked there too, Mother as the ballet mistress, myself as a dancer. Our pasts, and futures, were going up in smoke before our eyes, and I had a shrewd idea of who I was responsible.

I had been sitting in the manager's office, being quizzed by the chief of the _gendarmes_, France's military police, when the first explosion ripped through the Opera House. They had been questioning everyone after the death of Ubaldo Piangi and the abduction of Christine Daaé by the Phantom of the Opera. My own relationship with the Phantom, also known as the Opera Ghost, the Angel of Music or simply Erik, was dark and complicated. He was terrifying, seductive, dangerous, and I owed him my life. It was only over the course of the last thirteen months, that I learned just how much the Opera Ghost, a creature I had always believed to be no more than a fairytale, had been a part of my life. How much I was indebted to him. The fire that was taking from Mother and I everything we owned, was also destroying the evidence of the crime I had committed there. I had led the Comte Phillippe de Changy to his death, to protect Erik's secrets and my virginity, and now no-one would ever know.

I watched as the fire engine arrived, and the firemen began to battle the flames. I wondered if there was any chance that the Opera House could be saved, but my instincts said no. I glanced at Mother as her hand tightened around mine, and I saw he firelight glinting off the tears on her cheeks.

"Ladies," the golden voice came from behind us, lowered to almost a whisper. "No, don't turn around." A gloved hand fell on my shoulder. "There is a four-wheeler behind you. Get into it. I will be there in a moment."

The hand left my shoulder and I turned my head slowly to watch Erik go. If I hadn't recognised the voice, I wouldn't have known it was him. The figure shuffled away from the crowd and the firemen, bent over and supporting his trembling body with a black cane. He looked like an elderly man, wearing a brown coat, patched and mended, with a large hood pulled up over his head. Anyone who saw him would assume he was simply protecting himself against the continuing rain, but I knew better. The hood concealed his white half-mask from view, and his own natural stealth meant the he moved unnoticed, even in this crowded street. Mother gave my hand a gentle tug.

"Slowly," she murmured, and her eyes flicked to Inspector Barraé, chief of the _gendarmes_. He was sideways on to us, talking to the head fireman, who in turn was direction the men who were hosing the building with water. Mother I crept towards the four-wheeled carriage that Erik had indicated. It was painted black, without a coat of arms, but it was loaded down with luggage, all concealed by a brown tarpaulin, and two black horses were harnessed to it. Mother opened the door for me to climb in fire, and as I slid along one of the two seats to give her room, I seriously considered opening the opposite door and getting straight out again. She sat beside me, gently taking my hand again. The seat across from us was covered in bags, and I found myself wondering if they contained dismembered body parts. The carriage and horses were expensive-looking, and I had the horrible suspicion that Erik had murdered its true owner. Through the window on Mother's side, I saw the beggar-like shape of the Phantom as he approached the carriage, and it shifted as he climbed onto the driver's box. He cracked the whip, making some sort of noise of encouragement to the horses, and they set of with a jolt.

"Where is he taking us?" I asked.

"I don't know."

I looked at her in alarm. "Then why are we trusting him? He could be taking us anywhere, he could be about to kill us!"

"Meg, dearest, calm down. Erik is not going to hurt us. If you go not trust him than at least trust _me_. I will keep you safe, I promise you that."

I wanted to believe her, but I knew it would only be a matter of time before Inspector Barraé and his _gendarmes_ noticed that we were missing and started the search for us. If he hadn't thought we were guilty of something before, we must have confirmed it now; running was possibly the worst thing we could have done.

_But what other choice did we have_? I asked myself desperately, and twisted around in my seat to look out of the tiny window in the back of the carriage. The Paris streets were busy and dim through the rain, but I could see no obvious signs that anyone was pursuing us. Uneasy nevertheless, I rested my head on Mother's shoulder in an attempt to remain calm, while she held my hand, and turned her head to kiss my hair.

I felt her grip tighten as the minutes past and we drew closer to the outskirts of Paris, and I knew that she too was worrying about guards posted around the city, people who would stop us and drag us back to face judgement. We sat in silence, waiting for the order to pull up, but although the carriage slowed to a crawl, it did not stop, and Mother's breath came out in a rush.

We had been travelling for almost two hours, the buildings and streets giving way to trees and bramble bushes, when Erik called to the horses, and the carriage ceased. He swung himself down from the driver's box, opened the door, and stepped inside, sitting on the seat opposite Mother. None of us spoke as he opened one of the bags that had contained body parts in my enlarged imagination. I admit it was a deep relief to me when he pulled out a leather water flask and an apple. He guzzled the water, then bit into the fruit and looked at Mother.

"So silent?" He enquired through his mouthful of apple. "Has the cat got your tongue? I anticipated a scolding the moment I opened the door."

"Where are you taking us?" Mother asked, and her voice was quiet and calm, as if she were dealing with a wild animal that might bite at any moment.

"We are going to Normandy," he replied. "More specifically, a village just outside of Rouen called Corbeaux to be exact."

"Why?"

"Because it is somewhere we can all be safe."

"Are we your prisoners?" I asked, and felt a ripple of fear as his blue-green eyes went from Mother to me.

His lips twitched in slight amusement.

"You are welcome to return to Paris if you find my company so distasteful," he replied. "But I doubt you would receive a very warm reception."

I looked from him to Mother and back again.

"Did you two plan this together?" I demanded. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"We didn't plan this," Mother replied. "I had no idea any of this was going to happen. The fire is as much a shock to me as it is to you." She blinked hard, and I wondered if she were going to start crying again. "Why, Erik? Why did you make the Opera Poulairé burn?"

"My time as the Opera Ghost has come to an end," he said. "It is time to start afresh, a new life in another place. The old life had to die."

"You _destroyed_ the building!" I cried, unable to contain my anger. "You could have killed yet more people!"

"I made sure everyone got out unharmed, even the police." His tone was cool.

"And our possessions?" I spat back. "Material things obviously have no value for you; you got rid of everything that you owned in that house on the lake! What about us? You destroyed all the connections we ever had to Claude Giry, my father! He's buried back there in Paris and I didn't even get to say goodbye!"

And I burst into tears. I hadn't meant to, hadn't even sensed it coming, but the emotion just poured from me as if a dam had been broken down. I put my hand over my mouth to stifle the sobs, horribly ashamed. I must have cried more times in front of Erik than I had in front of any other person in my life, and I hated how weak it made me.

"Shh…" Mother wrapped her arm around my shoulders and pressed her handkerchief into my free hand. I took deep gulps of air and mopped at my face, trying to pull myself together. When I raised my head again, Erik handed the flask of water to me. I took a sip, then another.

"If you've composed yourself," he said in that same cool tone. "Perhaps you would care to listen to what I have to say instead of simply throwing your words at me."

"This has come as a huge shock to both of us," Mother spoke in my defence. "You can't blame Meg for being upset."

"Please explain yourself," I said. Erik leant back in the seat and folded his hands in his lap.

"There are numerous occasions on which either of you could have betrayed me," he began. "And yet you did not, even when faced with grave opposition, the loss of your employment or your liberty. I know that you, Meg, believe that I am a cruel man, but I remember the acts of kindness people have shown to me as well as brutality. It has long been my intention to leave the Opera Populairé, and so when the time came, I decided to take you both with me."

"Why?"

"Because you have proven to me that you can be trusted. You are loyal and faithful; and, as you know, I have a paternal interest in you, Meg. I should not wish to miss out on the next stages of your life. While the _gendarmes_ were keeping you all busy today, I took the liberty of removing your personal belongings from your rooms." He rapped his knuckles on the ceiling of the carriage. "Surely you did not believe this much luggage was simply on my account?"

I swallowed hard, remembering how heavily-laden the carriage was.

"I thought it belonged to the carriage's rightful owner," I admit. "I thought you'd…"

"Killed yet again," he finished. "Well I am happy to prove you wrong. Twenty thousand francs a month for almost a year goes a long way. I _own_ this carriage, Meg Giry, and I did nothing immoral to obtain it."

"And what's in… Corbeaux?"

"A house, also obtained entirely legally, where we can stay, for awhile at least." He must have read the worry in my eyes, for he continued. "You are a city bird, Meg. News travels more slowly in the country. The gossip of Town, partially anything that inconveniences the aristocracy, is of little consequence or interest to those who work the land for their living. They do not care if a building of high Art has been destroyed, or if one of the theatrical establishments is claiming manifestations of the supernatural."

"Surely a masked man draws attention, even in the country?" Mother asked.

"I expect so," he acknowledged. "But enough francs in enough pockets can buy a lot of indifference."

Mother did not look convinced, and I was uncertain as well; not just for the immediate future, but for further ahead. The Opera Populairé was the only life I had ever known, and today was the first time in my seventeen years I had been outside of Paris. I had been sheltered. The idea that I had to abandon all that and start up somewhere new was terrifying.

"What about Christine?" I blurted, and Erik tensed.

"What _about_ Christine?"

"She'll notice we're gone," I fretted. "She'll send people out to look for us… I'm supposed to be a her best friend, her maid of honour, Mother and I can't just disappear!"

Mother's arm tightened around my shoulder as Erik leaned forward.

"Christine Daaé is no longer any concern of yours of mine," he said in a freezing voice. "I could have left you back there, but if I had done you would be spending the night in a prison and I highly doubt that you would ever be able to show your face in public again, let alone at a high society wedding. Your ties are cut, Marguerite. That chapter of your life is over."

I wanted to argue, to reach over and shake him, to scream in his face. I didn't. The way he called me Marguerite made my skin crawl. I knew Mother could feel me trembling as she held me tighter.

"How long will it take to get to Corbeaux, Erik?" She asked and through my lowered eyelashes I saw his attention shift back to her.

"I estimate about another twelve hours," he replied. "But it will be dark soon. We will travel on a little further today, then find somewhere to spend the night and complete our journey tomorrow."

"And then?" I asked.

"And then we will see what king of a life will can build for ourselves," he replied. "Don't look so frightened. We are only at the beginning of our adventure."

xxxxx

In my opinion, adventures should remain between the pages of books, safely within the imagination of the writer and his readers. It was another three hours of travel before Erik drew the carriage to a halt outside a coaching house in a small town, whose uneven cobbled streets had caused us a rather uncomfortable ride. I had been immensely relieved (and felt a little silly) when the bags on the seat turned out to contain mostly food, and a huge blanket, which Mother and I wrapped around ourselves as night fell and the temperature plummeted.

Erik opened the carriage door and reached inside to help first Mother and then myself out into the cold night. He lifted the tarpaulin covering the luggage and pulled down a carpet bag, an easy task for a man of over six feet tall. That alone would surely make him a topic of gossip among the locals, since the average man was around five foot six, but added to that the fact that the right side of Erik's face was covered by a white mask, and I doubted very much that we would be free to leave in the morning. We were still too close to Paris for my liking. The coaching house Erik had chosen was called the Saint Jude Inn, and the sign swinging gently in the night breeze showed a miserable-looking man in a brown robe, who was presumably the Saint himself.

Erik linked his arm through Mother's, leaving me to trail along behind them as they entered the inn. I couldn't help but wonder what king of impression we made, with neither of us women in outdoor clothing, despite the fine rain that had followed us from Paris. The lobby of the Saint Jude Inn contained a lot of mahogany, from the panelled walls and the staircase on our right, to the doors and the huge reception desk. A dark red carpet covered the floor, like spilt wine. The man seated behind the desk did look surprised, but I think it was Erik's appearance, not ours, that gave him pause.

"Yes, Monsieur?" He asked after a moment.

"My family and I require rooms for the night," Erik replied smoothly. "Do you have any space available?"

He slid a banknote across the desk.

"Of course, Monsieur," the concierge replied, accepting the money with discretion and grace. "We have one double room with a single across the corridor. I trust that will suit?"

"It will," Erik replied. "Thank you. I assume the cost of the rooms also includes our evening meal?"

Another note slid across the mahogany desk between them, but the concierge hesitated.

"I am truly sorry, Monsieur, but the man who cooks for us left at nine o'clock…"

Erik heaved a sigh and a handful of coins followed the banknote.

"I'm sure I can rustle up something, and bring it to your rooms."

"To the room my wife and I will be sharing," Erik clarified. "The girl will be in the room opposite."

"Of course."

"We have two horses with our carriage outside," Erik told him.

"I'll see to them, Monsieur," the man said, and Erik went with him to make sure he did as he said. When they returned to the inn's lobby, he took two keys from the board behind the desk and handed them to Erik, before leading us up the staircase, which creaked under our weight like a ship at sea.

The room we found ourselves in was plain and functional, with the fire already burning in a modest hearth, a chest of drawers, a vanity table and a double bed. The washroom facilities consisted of a porcelain bowl and a jug of water, and a chamber pot under the bed. With awkwardness prickling through the air between us, we all perched on the bed.

"Needless to say I shall sleep in the room opposite," Erik said. "But we shall have to wait until no-one will observe the deception."

He took off the shabby brown coat and hung it over the fireguard, where the raindrops remaining upon it glittered like jewels upon a monarch's robe. Underneath, he wore the outfit we had put together for him that morning; brown trousers tucked into high boots, and a shirt that had once been my father's. It hung off his slender frame, with braces supporting the trousers. It was odd, seeing Erik in my dead father's clothing, especially in an outfit so far from his usual debonair style. He stretched, his spine clicking as he raised both arms over his head in front of the fire, and it wasn't until he turned from the flames that I saw how tired he looked.

"Is it difficult to control the horses?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied. "Why do you ask?"

"Because… I thought… well it's not fair for you to be the only person doing the driving, especially if we have another eight or more hours of travelling ahead of us."

He gave me a genuine smile, and I saw the exhaustion etched into his very stance.

"That's kind of you, Meg, but I don't think having an amateur take the reigns will be helpful, will it?"

"I suppose not," I acknowledged and he gave me an awkward pat on the shoulder.

I opened the carpet bag to find it contained a change of clothes and nightwear belonging to Mother and myself, as well as a nightshirt belonging to Erik. Erik himself paced the room, moving to the door in a flash when the knock came on it. He paused before opening it, and did not let the concierge enter, instead taking the tray he carried and muttering a word of thanks. The 'meal' turned out to be beef broth, which was piping hot and filling, and half a loaf of stale bread which could only been eaten once it was soaked in the broth.

The three of us ate in awkward silence, and I wondered if that was what our lives would be now; pretending to be a family, spending our evenings in tense silence. At last, Erik determined that there was no one moving around on our floor of the inn, and bid us goodnight. As Mother and I settled down to sleep in the double bed, I reflected that I didn't really like the idea of Erik as a father, and hoped the charade would not last for much longer.

xxxxx

**I hoped you have enjoyed the first chapter of 'The Angel's Flight', being the sequel to 'The Angel's Shadow'. Please leave a review; your comments and questions are always welcome! ~ Louise-Anne**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

I slept surprisingly well that night, with no dreams that I could recall. I suppose the shock and stress of the day must have forced my body to simply shut down, demanding rest. I awoke to find Erik leaning over me, shaking my shoulder with one hand and Mother's with the other.

"Come along, ladies," he said. "We must be off before we overstay our welcome."

"What time is it?" I mumbled, sitting up and running a hand through my tangled curls as I peered at the masked man in the grey light coming through the curtains.

"A quarter past six," he replied. "And we have a long journey ahead of us. Get dressed and be downstairs in ten minutes."

"A quarter past—" I began indignantly.

"Into your clothes now," he ordered. "Or must I assist you?"

"Out," Mother said firmly, and Erik gave an elaborate bow and left the room.

It was a little over twenty minutes before Mother and I were ready to leave. We came downstairs to the lobby where Erik was waiting for us, arms folded and already fuming.

"What took you so long?" He demanded, snatching the carpet bag from my hand.

"Corsets," Mother replied, and he turned away from us with an annoyed huff. We followed his stalking steps outside, where the carriage was waiting, the horses' reigns being held by a sleepy looking stable boy, whom Erik had clearly also dragged from his bed. Erik tossed the carpet bag up with the rest of our luggage, and pulled the tarpaulin over it. There was no rain this morning, but it was very cold, and I was glad to get into the carriage seize hold of the blanket Mother and I had wrapped around ourselves the previous night.

For the first couple of hours of the journey, I slept, my head resting on Mother's shoulder. She was looking out of the window when I awoke, and her expression, reflected in the glass, looked grim.

"Are you alright?" I asked. "You look worried."

She heaved a sigh.

"I'm not sure that Normandy is going to provide a good life for us," she admitted. "My concerns are the same as yours, Meg. Erik may have money now, but it won't last forever, and then what are we going to do?"

"We'll… have to find work," I said uncertainly.

"Of course, but neither you nor I have had work outside of the theatre," she said. "And I doubt there are many of those in Normandy. It's not a worry that should be foremost in my mind, Meg, and I don't want to burden you with it…"

"I understand." I nodded. "Our future has changed, beyond anything we were planning for. It's frightening."

"Yes," she sighed. "It's frightening."

I took her hand in mine and squeezed gently.

"But we have each other… Do you think that's why Erik… brought us along with him? Because he's lonely?"

"Perhaps," she nodded. "Erik had spent so much of his life alone, shunned and despised because of something he had no control over. Who deserves that, Meg? Right now, he needs us."

xxxxx

Erik stopped the carriage at the alongside a roughly built road in a forest, at about three o'clock in the afternoon. At first I thought he had paused to relieve himself, but instead of vanishing behind a tree, he opened the carriage door and climbed inside. He was well-wrapped up in the brown coat, with a scarf about his neck and hands covered by black leather gloves, but his unmasked cheek was pink from the wind against it.

"Are you alright?" I asked. "You must be tired."

"I do well enough," he replied, removing his gloves and rummaging through one of the bags. "We will be reaching Corbeaux in about an hour and a half, I estimate, and there are one or two things we should discuss before we arrive." He pulled out a sheaf of papers and handed some to me and some to Mother. "Your new identities, ladies."

I stared, open-mouthed, at the papers we both held. A marriage certificate stated that Antoinette Étourneau, formerly known as Madame Antoinette Jules and widowed by her husband, had married Erik Danton on September 9th 1893. And in October of that year, he had become the legal guardian of her daughter, Marguerite Étourneau, henceforth known as Marguerite Danton. Erik Danton, according to this paperwork, was an accountant, and his wife and stepdaughter were seamstresses.

I felt the blood starting to beat in my head.

Mother held the papers up to the light and squinted at the watermark which became visible.

"Well, the paper is genuine. Stolen? Mmm. A very good forgery, Erik, I must congratulate you."

"My God!"

My stomach flipped as the rushing noise in my head got louder, threatening to drown out everything else, the nausea building. I fumbled with the door handle on my side of the carriage, trying to force it, and almost falling out when the door opened. I staggered away from the carriage, one hand against my breast as I struggled to remember how to breathe, how to remain upright. I felt as though Erik were taking an enormous paintbrush and was whitewashing out everything that did not suit him and his new plans for life. Everything I had ever been and everyone I had ever loved blotted out by a forged signature on some fake legal paperwork.

I heard Mother and Erik get out of the carriage after me, and I gripped the slender trunk of a young tree, trying to catch my breath. The ground underneath me seemed to be swaying.

No, no, no… I prayed silently. Not here, not now…

The logical part of my brain knew that I was having a panic attack and that it was an extreme reaction, but it was drowned out by the cacophony in my head that was terrorized by the amount of change happening in such a short space of time.

"Meg, get back in the carriage." Erik's hand came down on my shoulder.

"Don't touch me!" I twisted away from him and saw him fold his arms, his expression angry. Mother looked sympathetic and worried. I pressed my hand to my chest again, the emotional pain so real that it was almost a physical sensation. Erik had always claimed that I was his; not in the way that Christine was his very heart, but that I was his property. He had delivered me at birth and used his own breath to start my breathing, and now that document legally tied me to him.

"Meg…" Mother walked towards me slowly. "Dearest…"

"What is the matter with the child?" Erik demanded. "Am I going to have to put up with this on a daily basis, Madame?"

"Shut up, Erik!" She approached me again, arms outstretched. "Meg…"

"Don't!" I begged, extending a trembling hand to stop her. "I can't breathe!"

"I know, Meg, I know. Just look at me. Focus on me." She took my outstretched hand and pressed it against her own chest. "Feel my breaths, Meg. Breathe with me. In… out… in… out… there's a good girl."

Her free hand brushed the hair from my forehead, where perspiration was starting to make it stick. With her guidance, the forest stopped trying to spin around me and my breaths came easier. We had each other. She was my rock, grounding me, holding me fast.

"That's it…" Mother let go of my hand and her arm encircled my back to hug me. "There, darling, it's over."

I shook my head, seeing Erik leaning against the carriage and watching with simmering impatience.

"I'm afraid," I whispered.

"I know," Mother replied gently. "I am too. But all this… the wedding that never happened, his guardianship of you… It's a farce, Meg." She kissed my forehead. "It's all a farce. We must pretend to be a family."

"Why?"

"Because people think differently here. There is no way that a man and two women can occupy the same house unless they are related. So we must just act the part for awhile, until the time comes to move on. Will you do that for me, Meg? Will you try?"

I nodded, and took another deep breath as Mother put her arm around my shoulders and led me back to the carriage. I tried not to look at the identity papers as the three of us resumed our seats, and told myself to remember that it was just a part. That's all it was, ink and paper, and not worth even that.

Mother glared at Erik and he cleared his throat.

"Corbeaux is quiet, which is one of the reasons I chose it; there is little passing trade and most of its wealth comes from agriculture. The farmers take their stock into Rouen every week for the market. There is a church, and the priest's name is Father Chauvelin. We will all be attending Sunday Mass every week." I opened my mouth to object, but he did not let me speak. "It is a religious community and if we do not attend it will be commented upon, and no doubt lead to gossip and rumour."

"But what about you?" I interrupted. "A masked man sitting in church is going to be cause for gossip and rumour anyway."

He nodded. "You may be right, but I do not think it will be as much of a problem as you expect. Certainly no one from Corbeaux is going to go running to the Parisian gendarmes and tell them that the Opera Ghost has taken up residence in their village."

Erik sounded confident, but I was less certain. A man in a mask was an intriguing premise for a story, and stories had a habit of spreading.

xxxxx

I mentioned before that I had never yet been outside of Paris, and therefore the mental image I had of a village came from the books I read.

I imagined a tiny group of houses surrounded by woodland, with thatched roofs and roses growing around the doors. There would be one shop, a family-run establishment, which fulfilled everyone's needs, a tavern or public house, a village hall where the mayor lived, and a church. I had a rather romanticised notion in my head.

Corbeaux was miniscule compared to Paris, but was hardly the lonely cluster of buildings huddled together that I had anticipated. It stood with the forest to the East of it, fields all around, the road Erik drove the carriage along properly paved. The houses were sturdily built, and larger than I had expected, their roofs made of clay or slate tiles. The road became a high street with shops on either side, with tables outside displaying their wears, and I found myself surprised by the quantity of them. I counted several clothing shops, six public houses, a butcher's, a greengrocer's, a blacksmith, a bakery, a barber's, and what looked, to my keen eye, like a bookshop. There was also a coaching house, and the church of dark stone, its steeple rising over the other buildings. Erik drew the carriage to a halt outside a non-descript structure and swung himself down from the driver's box. Mother and I got out of the carriage, eager to stretch our legs. The late afternoon sun spread like golden syrup over the street.

"You, boy!" Erik called to a child walking on the other side of the street. "Ten francs for watching the carriage."

"Yes, Monsieur," the boy trotted over, looking up at Erik with apparent fascination. "Why are you wearing a mask?"

I flinched, expecting anger, but Erik simply fished some coins from his coat pocket.

"I was badly burned in a fire," his tone sounded bored. "Were you to see behind this mask it would give you nightmares. Five francs now, boy, and five when we return. And mark my words, if anything goes missing I will hunt you down and have your hide."

The boy accepted the coins, shrugging as though he received threats like that every day; perhaps he did. Erik turned to enter the building, and Mother and I followed. Inside was a large room with a desk at either end, and a bookcase stuffed with identical brown leather volumes, each baring a hand written label on the spine. At first I thought they were books, but then I realised they were box files, each numbered and with a tiny lock.

A young man, with blonde hair and immaculately dressed, rose from his chair behind one of the desks. His bright smile faltered when he caught sight of Erik's mask, but he maintained a professional front.

"May I help you, Monsieur? Madame?" He nodded in my direction to acknowledge me as well.

"Monsieur Danton to see Monsieur Rousseau," Erik replied, removing his gloves.

"Of course. One moment, please."

He crossed the room to a door in the opposite wall and disappeared through it, returning half a minute later behind an older man, also splendidly dressed, with grey hair pulled back in a short ponytail. He didn't seem at all surprised by Erik's mask, or his scruffy clothing.

"Monsieur Danton," he greeted Erik.

"Monsieur Rousseau," Erik returned. "A pleasure to see you again. May I introduce my wife, Antoinette, and my stepdaughter, Marguerite."

I clenched my teeth, but Rousseau did not seem to notice, bowing us over to his desk, where there were two chairs on the visitor's side.

"Ladies, it is an honour. Did Paul offer you some refreshment?"

"Thank you, no." Erik answered for us. "We are keen to get on."

"Of course, Monsieur, I quite understand."

Rousseau opened his desk drawer, pulled out some papers, and sorted through until he found what he was looking for. Then he crossed over to the bookcase of box files, double-checking a number on the paper he held. He took down a file and carried it back to the desk, where he unlocked it using a tiny golden key on his watch chain. I peered at the new wad of papers that emerged with curiosity as Rousseau handed them to Erik with a smile. There looked to be a lot of legal jargon, but I recognised them as property deeds. Erik read them carefully, and then nodded.

"Very good. Where do I sign?"

Another flash of annoyance rippled through me as he dipped the pen in the inkwell, and I saw that he had moved his black-stoned ring from the little finger of his right hand to the ring finger of his left.

Just an act, I repeated to myself.

Erik signed several documents, and when he finished, Rousseau handed him a pair of keys.

"Thank you so much, Monsieur Danton. Would you like an escort to the house?"

"No, thank you, Monsieur," he replied. "I remember the way well enough."

After a few more pleasantries, Rousseau bowed us out of the office. The boy was still there, stroking the mane of one of the horses. Erik looked carefully over the carriage, then handed over the rest of the promised money. The boy beamed up at him.

"Great mask, Monsieur!" He cried, and before Erik has time to wipe the surprised look off his face, the child had run off, the coins clutched in his hand. We watched him go.

"You've made a new friend, Erik," I told him.

Erik shook his head, still looking astonished, then climbed onto the driver's box while Mother and I got into the carriage.

We drove out of the village centre, the road winding up a hill, the buildings becoming screened by trees. The house that we drew up beside was a peculiar mixture of old and new. It had clearly started life as a two storey cottage, but had been added to and extended very recently. It looked as though someone had tried to add a mansion onto the cottage's end wall, where the building suddenly sprouted a third storey and different stonework, the original roof sloping upwards where it joined the new wall. There were gardens front and back, planted with the most amazing flowers and trees, the rear garden full of herbs, vegetables and fruit trees, which would soon be blossoming as Spring arrived.

There was a stable attached to one side of the house, and Erik struggled to unhook the carriage, and led the horses into neighbouring stalls. I wanted to help him, but I knew nothing about horses and found them a bit intimidating; too large, with great big hooves and teeth.

He opened the wooden front door with one of the two keys, and between the three of us we took the luggage from the carriage and put it in the drawing room, before he started showing us around. The interior of the house was amazing, and full of light. It was as though after so many years of living underground, Erik wanted to let go of darkness and embrace the daylight once more. The walls were painted white and other pale colours, with windows everywhere. The furniture was elegant and modern, and I felt a lump rising in my throat. It was the drawing room that made the jolt of realisation settle in my stomach. It was as if someone had taken a photograph of Erik's home beneath the Opera Populairé, or even better, a stage set, and had changed the lighting so that it was illuminated by full sunlight, rather than firelight. The first thing that struck me was the sheer amount of light that filled the room. One wall, that in his underground home had been plain stonework, was a full-length French window that opened out onto the garden beyond. The walls were decorated with drawings; most were landscapes or architectural pieces, but there was at least one charcoal drawing of Christine. There were crystals in her dark curly hair, that I recognised from her debut performance as Elissa in Hannibal. So he had seen it. I had hoped at the time that he had been part of the audience.

There was a grand piano in the corner between the French window and the fireplace, facing out into the room. A Persian rug lay on the floor in front of the fireplace, and two violins were hung on the chimney breast, the bows crossed over the mantelpiece like duelling swords. I stared around at the chairs, little tables, sideboard, and I recognised it all, right down to the books on the bookcase.

Back in Paris, I had noticed that Erik's personal possessions and furniture were going missing, but I had never dreamed that he was moving them to a house in the country, replicating his former subterranean home above ground.

"Erik?" I asked. He paused in his mono-syllabic tour. "You… bought this house? Using the money you blackma-… they paid you at the Opera Populairé?"

"Yes," Erik confirmed. "I own this building outright, it has all been paid for. We're not going to get evicted if that is your fear, little dancer."

"That's not what I'm worried about," I shook my head. "You said this was a fresh start. But I think you've been intending to come here for quite some time… with Christine."

He glowered at me, and it was confirmation enough. He had been intending to start a new life with the woman he loved. It must be like rubbing salt into his wounds to come here and live that life without her. How could he let go and move on from her, with all these preparations and dreams in place?

Erik was glaring at me so ferociously that I knew the pity I felt for him must be showing on my face. He did not want my pity, he wanted to move on. I cleared my throat.

"Where is my room?" I asked, and Erik indicated the direction with a jerk of his head.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Erik led me up a steep flight of stairs in what had clearly been in the original part of the house, to the bedroom that was to be mine. It was about the same size as my dormitory at the Opera Populairé, which I had shared with Christine. However, this room had only the one narrow bed against a whitewashed wall, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers upon which there was a vanity mirror, and next to the door, a bookcase. A chimney breast ran up the wall opposite the bed, and I could tell from the route we had taken that it was the same chimney that served the fireplace in the drawing room; this room must be directly above it. The ceiling sloped, proving again that this was an original part of the house, directly under the roof, and a window shaped like one in a church faced West, where the sun was slowly starting to set. Through it, I could see over the screen of trees, down onto the roofs of the village, the fields beyond, a stream, and the woodland further beyond that. I turned from the view and smiled at Erik, standing in the doorway, carrying a box. This bedroom seemed to me to have been meant for a servant, but I didn't care. I had loved sharing my room with Christine, who had been like a sister to me, but this would mean having a space to call my own.

"Thank you, Erik," I said, and he approached me, holding out the box.

"Your books, Mademoiselle Danton."

The use of the name made my stomach twist and I paused in the act of taking the box.

"Étourneau," I corrected. He went as rigid as a statue.

"I beg your pardon?" A statue carved from ice, his voice was so cold.

"Étourneau," I repeated, unable to look him in the eye and focusing on the wall behind his right ear. "Even if you had married my mother, I would be entitled to keep my name."

"The name of Giry will earn you a prison sentence," Erik said.

"But the name of Étourneau would not," I said to the wall. "It's my mother's maiden name, a part of my past, and I am not going to let you take that away from me."

I could feel my own eyes burning as I allowed them to meet his. They appeared to glow blue and green as the setting sunlight streamed through the window. Erik dropped the box between us and I backed away as it hit the floor.

"You ungrateful brat," he seethed. "Do you have any idea what would happen to you if the _gendarmes_ found you? I am your saviour, you brat! You owe me more than you can ever repay!" His fingers closed around my throat as my heels hit the wall and I felt my shoulder blade press into the window pane. "You will obey me. You will do what I tell you or I swear to God you will rue the day you crossed me! Your past life belongs to someone else, Marguerite. Your surname is Danton now, and if I have to make you live in fear then so be it. In short, girl, I do not agree to allow you to keep the name of Étourneau. It can be traced to your mother. It can be connected to me."

"Please," I said, trying to keep my voice calm. "You'll leave bruises. You don't want to do that, Erik."

"Perhaps I do."

"No. A fresh start, you said. Paris is two days' journey away from us, and so is everything associated with it. Let it go, Erik. Leave the hurt behind."

He loosened his hold on my throat, running his fingers over the chain I wore.

"What is your name?"

"Meg Étourneau."

He slapped me across the cheek and I gasped in shock.

"What is your name?" He asked again, his voice soft, calm, pleasant. I knew that, in this at least, I had to submit.

"Meg Danton."

"And do not forget it."

He turned from me, and I saw Mother standing in the doorway, her fingers tight around the cane she was using to support her weight; the leg she had broken so many years ago must be causing her pain. Mother opened her mouth, but he raised a finger.

"Not a word," he said quietly. "Not one word."

He swept past her, and she watched him go, then looked back at me.

"Meg-"

"I'm fine," I said quickly. "We have a lot of unpacking to do."

She hesitated, looking like she wanted nothing more than to cross the room and wrap me in her arms, but I lifted my chin.

"I'm fine."

When she went, I touched my cheek with cautious fingers. I knew Erik's strength, and knew that his slap had been little more than a tap. He was capable of inflicting far more damage on me, and had done in the past, so that blow had been intended to shock, not to hurt. I had known Mother to pack a stronger punch than that; it was a warning. However, he had hit the exact spot on my cheek that the Comte Phillippe de Chagny had slapped only two days before, and the sting burned on the already bruised flesh.

xxxxx

For two people now living under the same roof, it was remarkable how Erik and I managed to avoid each other for the rest of the day. We spent it passing each other in corridors, hallways, making way for each other on staircases, never making eye contact and not speaking unless it was absolutely necessary. Erik had taken everything I owned from the Opera Populairé, and although it may not have seemed like much, I took as long as I could over unpacking, sorting and tidying my belongings into their new home. My books had pride of place on the bookcase, the first one I had ever owned.

Mother cooked a stew for us using fresh ingredients found in the larder, and I wondered who had stocked it. The three of us ate in strained silence at the kitchen table, with not even Mother trying to bridge the still air between us.

Erik's mood was best judged by his music. When he had unpacked and sorted his own belongings—a task that took a mere ten minutes given that most of them were all ready in place—he went to the piano in the drawing room and pounded out his emotions upon it, the way a young girl might confide to her diary. Powerful, resonant notes sounded throughout the entire house, and I fancied my bedroom floorboards vibrated with the sounds. As the hours passed and the golden syrup day turned into the deep, dark velvets of night, the music mellowed, softened, and tunes of beauty took up the space where anger had held sway. I still remained out of the way, having no desire to reignite a spark of fury, but Mother sat in the drawing room with him in the golden firelight, and listened to him play.

I had lit the fire in my own bedroom and changed into my nightgown by the time ten o'clock came around, and intended to go downstairs and say goodnight to Mother before trying to get some sleep.

I was at the top of the staircase when I heard her speak.

"Erik? May I talk to you?"

The music slowed but did not stop. I descended a couple of steps and sat on the top stair, looking down through the banister rails to where I could see the door to the drawing room partially open. I could see nothing through it but the firelight flickering off the pale wall, but I could hear every word. Erik must have nodded, for Mother spoke again before he did.

"Why did you strike Meg earlier today?"

"The girl was insolent," he replied, still playing the piano. "She told me that she intended to use the name Étourneau instead of taking my name. I told her that doing so could cause us to be traced, that the whole point of this affair was the leave the past and our connections to it behind, but she still defied me." I could imagine him raising his visible eyebrow as he spoke, his tone matter-of-fact. "You have given her far harsher punishments than that little slap, and we both know it. She is my ward, Antoinette, and I can punish her how I choose, according to law."

I heard Mother inhale deeply and felt my fingers close tight around the banister rails.

"You do realise that's not strictly true, don't you? There has been no real marriage, no real assumption of guardianship."

"If you and she are to live under my roof, then you will do as I say." The music slipped into a minor key as a dangerous tone entered Erik's voice.

"I understand," Mother replied. "And I know that Meg can be… trying."

_Trying?_ I felt a sharp stab of hurt.

"But you must, please, try to learn patience with her. You've not had children of your own, you don't have any experience with them, and you don't understand Meg's… fragility."

"Fragility?" Erik repeated, and I heard the smile in his voice. "Your Meg can be quite the little firebrand. I believe I told you before that I have rarely encountered anyone who has faced my wrath and returned for more. It is—_was_ a quality I admired in Christine."

_Christine. How could he compare me to Christine?_ A shadow moved on the wall as Mother stood up from her chair and began to walk back and forth in front of the fireplace, the Persian rug muffling the tap of her cane on the floor.

"I love Meg more than anything else in this world. God knows she has her faults, but she is not entirely to blame for them. When my Claude…" she paused, swallowing. "When he died… when he committed suicide right in front of her, it shattered Meg into a thousand pieces. She was ten years old, Erik, and ever since then I have been trying to keep those pieces together. I… I believe that she may be younger in mind than she is in body. Not by much, perhaps, but she experiences thoughts and terrors that most girls of seventeen are long past. All it will take is the wrong move at the wrong time, and the person closest to me, whom I love with my heart and soul, will fall apart."

"How touching," Erik replied dryly. "She has suffered. So have you, so have I. Compared to the life I have led, she knows nothing of suffering. I expect order, discipline and respect in my home. You are both mine, Antoinette, you know that, don't you?" The music stopped.

"I know." She said quietly. "And I do not deny it. What I am asking for is that you try to show… kindness to my daughter. Beneath all this, Erik, all the scars that your life has placed upon you, corporal and otherwise, I believe you have a good heart. You could be a good man if you would but try."

He scoffed. "Such sentiment does not resolve the issues we have, does it?"

"I will talk to Meg," Mother said. "I will ensure she understands that we are in your… care, and that you must be afforded the respect you deserve. You do deserve respect, Erik. What I ask is that, when you do run into problems with Meg, you come to me first. Don't just lash out at her. Do not punish her without consulting me. She is _my_ flesh and blood, Erik, I am her parent!"

The way she said it made me feel like he might have made some move to interrupt her.

"It is my place foremost to issue retribution. You know I've beaten the girl before, but only when she has truly deserved it. I do not enjoy causing her pain, but sometimes it is the only way she will learn. I would never strike a child because I think it will give me some sort of pleasure."

"And you think I would?"

"I think there is a part of you that enjoys having power and domination over someone else, and a part of that enjoyment is knowing that you can inflict suffering upon that person. Don't do it to my Meg, Erik. We are more valuable to you as allies and friends than as cowering servants or enemies."

I had heard enough to make me distinctly uncomfortable, and crept back to the top of the staircase, then clattered down them with as much noise as possible, considering I was barefoot. I heard Erik begin to play the piano again, starting in a minor key, so I passed the drawing room door and entered the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. The music was back in a major key when I reached the drawing room door again, and I entered with the glass in hand.

"I'm going to go to bed now," I announced, and crossed to Mother, who was sitting in one of the two armchairs that had formerly lived in Erik's underground lair, skirting the sofa.

"Goodnight, dear." Mother rose and wrapped her arms around me, whispering in my ear. "Best to add a dressing gown when Erik is still about, love."

I felt myself blushing, not having even considered that appearing in my nightgown might be considered inappropriate. Mother kissed me on my unbruised cheek and smiled with genuine affection.

"Sleep well, Meg."

"Goodnight, Mother." I kissed her back and turned to look at Erik. "Goodnight, Monsieur Erik."

"Goodnight, Meg," he answered in his usual golden tones. I went to the door, but his voice stopped me. "Meg?"

"Yes?" I turned, wondering if he was about to apologise for striking me.

"Make sure you damp down the fire before you go to bed."

I stared at him, wondering if he thought me so stupid that I would not think of this on my own.

"Of course, Erik. Goodnight."

xxxxx

Hours later, long after I had ensured the fire was properly extinguished, after reading a chapter of my book, after Erik's music had ceased and I heard him and Mother go to their separate rooms, I still could not sleep.

The countryside was so unsettling; I was used to the perpetual hum of Paris, a city that emitted sound and light no matter what the hour. I thought that the silence of the countryside would deafen me, until I found myself jumping at every unfamiliar noise. Wind rustled through the leaves, there were nocturnal bird calls and snuffles from animals, and the house itself creaked and sighed as the woodwork settled down. It was darker than I was used to as well, with no street lights, unlike Paris where the gas lamps had started being replaced by electricity. Clouds had rolled over the sky, blocking out the light of moon and stars, and it wasn't until the rain started drumming on the roof that I felt myself relax. It was a familiar noise in this strange place, a lullaby to coax me off to sleep…

Something wet plopped onto my cheek. I shifted, roused, and grumpily rolled over in the sheets. Another drop landed in my hair, then a second, a third. I sat up. I could hear the rain outside, and the water hitting the pillow where my head had been. With a mumbled curse, I reached out for the candle on the nightstand and lit it with a match. The sloping roof above my head was glistening with damp, and droplets fell with increasing speed. I swore again and got up, wondering what to do. A leaking roof would need to be repaired, but it was the middle of the night and nothing could be done until morning. I fished the chamber pot out from under the bed and dumped it on the pillow, where it starting collecting the water in a little symphony of pings and plops. I looked at the feet of the bed to see if they were bolted to the floor, as the ones in the Opera Populairé had been, but this one seemed to be free-standing. There was no point complaining about the leaky roof until the morning, and even if I wanted to, I had no idea where Erik's own bedroom was.

I put my candle on the floor, took hold of the end of the bed and pulled it forwards me and a bit to the left, so that the head was away from the leaky patch and the foot pointed across the room at an odd angle. It would do for tonight. I plonked the chamber pot on the floor under the leak and paused as something on the skirting board caught my eye. It had been previously hidden by the positioning of the bed against the wall, but I could now make out scratches in the woodwork. I picked up the candle and moved forward to look more closely. The marks weren't just scratches, but letters, carved by an inexperienced, childish hand. E-R-I-K-D.


End file.
